Tell Me You Care
by spidermanpls
Summary: Peter Parker knew the dangers of becoming a superhero. He just didn't know that those dangers would include so much pain, or that there might not be anyone there to pick him up when he fell.
1. Chapter 1

**So, I finally got around to writing my first Spidey fiction! Please leave reviews, and hopefully I'll update again soon.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Marvel universe.**

 **(Side note: for those of you who have read my Captain America story,** **Colors of the Wind** **, I promise I will be updating soon. At the moment I'm stuck with a really bad case of writer's block, but maybe writing this Spider Man story will help me get over it.)**

Darkness.

Cold.

Silence.

Pain.

Those were the only things Peter knew for certain still existed, because they were the only things he could feel. The darkness hung all around like an impenetrable cloak. The metal table on which he lay felt like ice against his bare skin, and his ragged breathing barely broke the heavy silence. But all these things were small, insignificant, immeasurable, compared to the intense stabbing pain which permeated throughout his entire body.

The first few hours had been the worst, when he was completely alone with no idea of what had happened. He remembered Aunt May dropping him off at that stupid month-long summer camp she had signed him up for. He remembered speaking to one of the counsellors, trying to figure out why his name had been removed from the list. He remembered another counsellor coming to apologize for the confusion, then offering to drive him across the campground to his cabin. He remembered getting into the car, and then after that…nothing. Everything was a blur after that, until he woke alone, in the dark, tied to a metal table with restraints that even his super-strength couldn't break out of.

There was no way of knowing how long he had been there before he had come. Peter didn't know his name, and the man barely spoke as he carried out the torture, so in his mind, Peter simply referred to him as KAT, for Kidnap And Torture. A childish name, perhaps, but at the moment he was in far too much pain to care.

KAT didn't seem to be much larger than Peter himself, but the tools in his hands gave him all the power. Without even a hint of the traditional villain monologue the superhero had grown accustomed to, KAT plunged right into the torture.

He began by making small, shallow cuts in Peter's stomach, wiping away the pools of blood almost tenderly as he watched closely to see how quickly the wounds healed themselves. This process actually wasn't too painful for Peter, as he had long ago adapted to block out the pain of small cuts he often received when fighting. This lasted for several hours, and Peter was happy when it ended, but all too soon he found himself wishing to go back to the painless little cuts.

Without warning, the soles of Peter's feet began to burn. It felt as if he had accidently stepped in a pool of lava or something. Caught by surprise, he couldn't help but let out a small cry, trying as hard as he could to keep the tears pooling in his eyes from dripping down his cheeks.

"Does that hurt?" KAT spoke for the first time, his voice not rough or evil, but so neutral it sounded like the voice Ned would use to ask if they had homework in a particular subject. He didn't sound cruel, merely curious. Peter didn't reply, still biting his lip to keep from crying out again as his feet burned even more fiercely.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the flames turned off, leaving him still in agony but without the addition of continuous torture.

Peter shouted suddenly, unable to help himself as KAT unexpectedly swung a hammer and hit the raw, burned bottoms of his feet.

"Oh my-" Peter gasped. "What the hell?! Aaah!" He shouted and cursed, clenching his teeth and balling his hands into fists to help deal with the shock.

"That hurt more because you were already wounded and weak, no?" KAT asked, again more curiously than evilly, like a scientist conducting an experiment.

"What do want?" Peter said angrily. This time it was KAT who did not reply, but simply wrote something down on his clipboard and turned to leave.

"Hey! Hey, where am I? What do you want with me? Hey!" Peter called after him in vain, but without looking back at him once, KAT turned off the light and swung the heavy metal door closed with a hollow clang. Peter was alone once more.

Darkness.

Cold.

Silence.

Pain.

Once again, his only companions as he lay helpless, trapped, with no way out.


	2. Knowledge

**This one's a little longer, hopefully better too. Please review, it really means a lot to me.**

Time dragged on agonizingly slowly. Minutes seemed to last hours, hours felt more like days. Or, Peter thought grimly, maybe actual days _were_ passing as he lay there alone, in the dark. Maybe it had been longer than he thought since the kidnapping. Maybe Aunt May was frantically searching for him, wondering why he hadn't called. The very thought of Aunt May being worried sick over him gave Peter new energy. He struggled desperately against the iron clamps holding him down, and though they refused to budge, he kept at it, pulling and pushing as he tried to ignore the stabbing, burning feeling every time he moved his feet.

Then another thought hit him, a terrible, awful, horrific realization that weighed down on his chest heavier than a load of bricks, which he would soon look back on and laugh at ironically.

KAT had taken him at the perfect time, the beginning of that horrible month-long summer camp May signed Peter up for. _Month-long_. Even if several days had passed without him realizing it, no one would be looking for him for at least four weeks. In that time, KAT could torture him, starve him, even kill him, and no one would have a clue.

With this realization, Peter struggled against his bonds all the more fiercely, thrashing, pushing, pulling, screaming in frustration. But it was all in vain. Peter didn't know it yet, but no sound could penetrate the thick grey walls of his prison. No one could hear him, and no one was coming to get him.

Peter sagged back on the table, weary after almost an hour of exertion. Almost an hour of tugging at his restraints and yet they hadn't budged at all. His body was drenched with sweat,

and every single muscle in his body sore from the strain.

A loud bang echoed throughout the dismal grey room, followed by soft footsteps approaching the table. Peter could feel his heart racing in fearful anticipation, but he forced himself to slow his breathing and hide all signs of the intense panic building in his chest. KAT appeared at the end of the table, holding something in his hand just out of Peter's line of sight. Blank, emotionless grey eyes looked deeply into brave, if somewhat scared, brown ones. Neither spoke for the longest time.

"Why am I here?" Peter asked at last. KAT seemed confused by the question.

"Because I brought you here," he answered.

"But why?"

"Why…? To study you, of course."

"But why me? Why are you studying me? What for?" Peter, though he tried to stay calm, could still feel the panic rising, the need to have answers.

"Why does anyone study anything, but to gain knowledge?"

"Gain knowledge about wh-AAHH!" While Peter was speaking, KAT suddenly raised the object in his hand, a knife, Peter could now see, and made a deep cut in his right leg, from the knee to the ankle.

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but bit his tongue and remained silent instead, squeezing his eyes shut to try to ignore the pain.

KAT looked at him curiously and, walking around to the other side of the table, made another, deeper incision on the left leg. Peter sucked air in between clenched teeth and stiffened his entire body, but didn't say anything.

"Curious," KAT said emotionlessly and marked something down on his ever-present clipboard. He then moved up the table, closer to Peter's head, and lifted the knife to cut his right arm. Peter turned his head the other way, and braced himself for a cut that never came. He waited several seconds, then slowly opened his eyes and faced KAT. The man was staring intently at Peter's face, his knife ready to break the skin, and the instant he could see Peter looking directly into his own eyes, he cut.

Peter inhaled sharply as the warm red blood flowed freely down his arm, spreading across the surface of the table, even beneath him, and eventually reaching the edge of the table where it spilled over the side, dripping slowly to stain the concrete floor below. KAT cut again, three quick slashes across Peter's chest and stomach, all the while staring directly at his face. When the only reaction he got was tightly clenched teeth, he moved the knife to the other side and tried again.

This time, he used two knives to slice across Peter's stomach, one vertical slash, one horizontal. The cuts weren't deep, but they bled profusely. In quick succession, KAT cut into Peter over a dozen more times, on his chest, his shoulders, even his neck. The pain was stronger, or at least more intense, than anything he had felt before.

It hurt.

A lot.


	3. An Alternate Method

KAT cut Peter many more times before he finally stopped. By that point, Peter had lost so much blood that he could barely feel the pain anymore. He faded in and out of consciousness, only vaguely aware that KAT had left the room, and that it was dark once more. It was strange. He could feel the darkness around him, the silence, even the pain, however subdued, was still there. But it wasn't cold anymore.

It wasn't cold, but it wasn't warm either. It was only…wet. His stomach, his chest, hands, legs, shoulders, even cheeks were slick with blood. Blood that had felt warm when it first poured out of his veins but now only felt _there_. Peter took a deep breath, trying to counteract the sudden spell of dizziness that had come upon him.

Probably from the blood loss, he thought somewhere in the back of his mind. He groaned softly, the small noise sounding loud in the empty room. Peter closed his eyes to ease the pounding in his head, and before he knew it he could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness. Sweet, blessed sleep closed in around him, making all his pains disappear.

 _Bang!_ Peter jerked awake with gasp at the sound of the heavy metal door being pushed open and hitting the brick wall with a hollow bang. Before he knew what was happening, a tall, extremely muscular man was standing over him and pushing a syringe into Peter's shoulder, injecting a clear fluid into him.

The man snapped Peter's restraints open, and seeing his chance, Peter moved to knock the man out with what was left of his strength so that he could escape. He tried to jerk his arm up, but with a sudden ice-cold sinking feeling, he realized that he could no longer control his arms or legs. They weren't responding to the signals from his brain.

While he was momentarily distracted, Muscle Man wrapped his beefy hands around the upper parts of Peter's arms and dragged him off the table. As soon as his feet hit the floor, Peter yelped in pain. Apparently, although he could not control his body parts, he could still feel when pain was inflicted on him. That did not bode well.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked Muscle Man nervously.

"What I'm being paid to do," Muscle Man answered. He dropped Peter in a heap on the cold concrete floor, reopening several cuts which had finally stopped bleeding, and stepped closer to a rack on the wall. After carefully examining the rack's contents, Muscle Man finally selected a metal baseball bat. He grinned maliciously at Peter.

"This is gonna hurt like hell, kid," he chuckled, then swung the bat down hard. It contacted solidly with Peter's ribs, and a definite cracking sound echoed through the air, almost immediately drowned out by a sharp cry from Peter, and soon after, more cracks, and more cries.

Muscle Man hit him in the ribs over and over again, then several times in the knees and shins. Any part of Peter's torso or legs that had not previously been covered in dried blood was now slick with bright red blood, which only disguised the bruised skin and shattered bones beneath. The cuts on Peter's face stung freshly as salty tears streamed from closed eyes, and blood soon filled his mouth from where his teeth bit down hard on his tongue to keep from crying out again and begging for mercy. He was a superhero, he was Spider Man! Spider Man doesn't beg.

After what felt like an eternity, Muscle Man finally stopped swinging the bat. He turned Peter on his side so that he could cough up the blood and saliva clogging his throat. Peter breathed carefully, every breath he took feeling like a thousand hot knives to the chest. No doubt his shattered ribs were scraping against his lungs, but fortunately he didn't think they had been punctured. He had gained a small amount of control in his arms by this point, so he carefully wrapped them around his chest, feeling the movement of the broken bones.

"Why…are you…doing…this?" he wheezed pitifully.

Muscle Man looked down on him heartlessly. "Like I said, kid, I was paid to do this. It's not personal." Before Peter could react, Muscle Man was on him again, this time dragging him by the neck across the room. Peter's wounds left a trail of fresh blood on the grey floor, but he could barely see it because of the spots swimming in his eyes from being choked by Muscle Man's beefy hand.

Before he could black out from lack of oxygen, Peter was being lifted roughly, and before he could draw a breath, he was submerged in a tub of water. He struggled weakly, trying to get his head to the surface for air, but he didn't have the strength. He couldn't hold his mouth closed anymore, water was rushing in, filling his damaged lungs. He coughed and choked on the water, which was now turning red from his blood.

Muscle Man pulled him out before he could suffocate, pounding on his back to expel the water from his burning lungs. Peter lay in a heap on the floor again, shivering, breathing in the sweet, pure air. Breathing had never felt better, even with broken ribs scraping against his lungs.

Three minutes. Exactly three minutes after pulling him out of the water, Muscle Man shoved Peter back into the tank. This time, he was able to hold the air in longer, but even with his superpowers he could not hold off the inevitable. He had to open his mouth, and the water rushed in to fill his lungs again. And again, Muscle Man waited until the last possible second to pull him out, expel the water, and let him breathe for a few minutes before plunging him back in.

Again and again this horrific process was repeated. Five times, six, seven. Peter eventually lost count of the number of times he almost drowned. They all blurred together into one continuous torturous memory, until the very last time. Again, Peter held his breath for as long as possible, then allowed the water to fill his lungs. He wasn't even trying to stop it anymore. The water was inside him, filling him, making his lungs burn, and yet Muscle Man didn't pull him out. Peter cracked his tightly clenched eyes open, only to see that Muscle Man wasn't even there.

He left Peter to die, drowning in a tank of water in an unknown location, too weak to even save himself.

No! Peter thought. No, this wasn't how he would die. Spider Man couldn't die like this, _Peter Parker_ couldn't die like this. He summoned every last bit of strength he could, and pushed off from the bottom of the tank. His burned feet and bruised legs objected terribly, but Peter ignored it. His head was becoming light, and he knew he didn't have much time. He struggled, pulling himself to the top of the tank. Finally, his head broke to the surface!

He pulled himself out of the tank and fell into a pile on the floor, coughing, choking, gasping for air. All his wounds were bleeding freely, his head throbbed and spun, the world seemed to tip beneath him. He heaved and threw up what felt like several gallons of water, the entire contents of his stomach.

Peter turned himself over onto his back, every bone and muscle protesting, but he did it. He lay there, breathing, occasionally coughing up more water, more than he thought could even fit inside him. It was cold again, freezing. The air felt like ice, jagged icicles stabbing and pulling his lungs apart. Why did the room seem to be getting so dark? Oh, that's right. He was passing out.

Seconds before the entire world was plunged into pitch black, Peter could hear somewhere over the whooshing, pounding in his ears the sound of footsteps approaching. He could see someone bending down to look in his eyes. Who was that? KAT, that's what he called him. Did he like KAT? Peter couldn't remember. He closed his eyes and the entire world sank into darkness.


	4. Not Right

**Sorry this one's so short. More soon!**

" _Peter? Peter, can you hear me?"_

The voice sounded faint and muffled, like it was traveling a long way through something thick, a wall or something, to reach Peter's brain. He wondered who was speaking. Maybe he should respond. But was it worth it? It would take so much energy to speak, or open his eyes, or even move, and it would disrupt the warm, blanket-like darkness all around him. Just easier not to.

" _Are you awake, Peter?"_

Of course he was, he just didn't want to be. It would so much simpler to stay asleep for ever, or at least until this whole thing was over. If it ever ended.

" _You've been asleep for several days, Peter,"_ the voice continued. " _I'm beginning to wonder if you shall ever wake up."_

Yeah, Peter thought, he would wake up. He was awake right now. He just didn't want to respond.

But wait a minute. He'd been asleep for _days_? That was weird. It hadn't felt like that long. Huh. Time passes quickly when you're unconscious.

The voice spoke again. " _I must admit, Peter, I was quite impressed by your resolve to save yourself. Your instincts of self-preservation are much sharper than I imagined. Even with all your injuries you managed to pull yourself from the water, something I have never observed in my past subjects."_

A thin, ice-cold hand was suddenly placed on Peter's bare, bruised chest. He wanted to shiver, both in disgust and from the cold, but found that he could not. The voice became softer the next time it spoke, almost like it was whispering a secret in his ear that no one else could know.

" _You are a very…special patient, Peter,"_ it said. " _You have a strong will, and a higher tolerance for pain than most others. You have benefitted my research greatly."_

Peter wanted to struggle against the touch of that hand, to get away from that sickly sweet voice in his ear, but his body felt frozen, completely unresponsive to the signals from his brain. He wanted someone to come save him from this man, someone who often flew around in a metal suit. Streaks of red and gold flashed across Peter's mind. What was that guy's name? He was rich, Peter knew, and a little arrogant, but no matter how hard he tried, Peter couldn't remember the man's name. It bothered him, even scared him a little.

Maybe his aunt would come. Aunt…what was it? Aunt Mary? Aunt Mora? Aunt Margaret? No, Aunt May, that was it. It shouldn't have been that hard to find her name, Peter thought. Why couldn't he find simple things in his mind, things he should know? Something wasn't right.

Even this man, the man whose cold, thin, creepy hand still lay on Peter's chest, he couldn't think of a single thing he knew about this guy except that he didn't like him. Why was he even here?

Peter felt like crying, and he probably would have, if only his body would respond. But no, he shouldn't cry, right? He was S…someone important. Someone who shouldn't cry easily. Someone who should be very memorable to himself. And he couldn't remember.

None of this was right.


	5. It Hurts

**This one's actually pretty long, for me anyway. Please let me know what you think!**

Peter was tired. The man with the cold hands had left several hours ago, but he hadn't been able to fall asleep. Every second passed so agonizingly slowly, it was almost like being stuck in history class. Except his cuts and burns still hurt. And he couldn't wake up, apparently.

He had tried, so many times in the past few hours. He tried to open his eyes, or lift his hand, even tense a single muscle in his body. But none of it worked. It was like he was just trapped in a corner of his own mind, unable to affect anything. It totally sucked.

Through the murky cloud his mind seemed to be lost in, Peter thought he heard the metal door being pushed open again, with more force than the man with the cold hands should have been able to use. Then heavy footsteps pounded on the cement floor. They were getting closer, and Peter instinctively shrank into the deepest, darkest, most secure part of his mind. He wasn't exactly sure why he wanted to hide from this new man, but it just seemed like the safest course of action.

Peter could feel the cold metal on his skin as the man undid his restraints, and then two rough, beefy hands that felt oddly, and terrifyingly, familiar were grabbing his upper arms, which felt sore from still unhealed cuts, and he was being dragged across the room. Columns of pain shot up Peter's legs as his burned feet hit the hard floor with a jolt, every cut burned more fiercely than he thought was even possible, and his shattered ribs scraped harshly against his lungs.

The man, Muscle Man, Peter could remember calling him, dropped him on the floor and almost immediately began hitting him in the face. It was pure agony, only thinly veiled through a curtain of brain fog. There was not a single piece of his body which did not feel on fire with a pain stronger than any Peter had felt before, and yet he couldn't do a single thing.

He knew exactly how long this torture lasted; four minutes and twenty-three seconds. Somehow, being detached from his body made his mind clearer. He still felt every bit of pain that his body was forced to endure, but it no longer blinded him, like the last time. Oh yeah. There had been a last time. He could remember it now, in shockingly good detail. He remembered drowning, and being pulled back at the last second every time, thirteen times in a row. Then the fourteenth time, he hadn't been pulled back. He was forced to pull himself out, but by then it was already almost too late. That's way he was asleep, why he couldn't wake up. He remembered now.

He remembered that Muscle Man had done this to him, probably on KAT's orders. That was another thing he remembered; he had nicknamed his torturer KAT. Weird.

But Muscle Man had hurt him, and now he was hurting him again. He had apparently tired punching Peter in the face, because now he had moved on to something less forceful, and much more painful; fire.

Peter didn't know what kind of tool or instrument was being used, he assumed it was a blowtorch, but whatever it was, it hurt like hell. He wished he could scream from the pain, but he was simultaneously glad that he couldn't, because screams that loud and strong would likely split his throat in half. The burns had been bad enough the first day, when it was just his feet, but now it was infinitely worse. Muscle Man moved the flame up and down Peter's body, until every part of him was almost literally on fire. It hurt so badly, and Peter wished he could pass out from the pain. But unfortunately, passing out wasn't really an option at the moment.

After sufficiently burning every other part of Peter's body, Muscle Man turned up the heat and decided to focus mainly on his chest and stomach.

Peter counted the seconds this new torture lasted, becoming more clear-headed with every passing second. It was so weird that pain made it so much easier to focus on the things around him.

Two minutes and fifty-four seconds. Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Three minutes. And it kept going. Peter sighed in his head. This was not good at all.

Finally, at six minutes and twenty-one seconds, Muscle Man turned off the blowtorch and put it down. He grabbed Peter by the arms again and dragged him back to the table, clamping his hands and feet back into the metal restraints. Receding footsteps, and then a hollow metal bang; the door closed behind him.

Peter wanted to scream. He wanted to break off the restraints, and hit his captors in the face, and leave this awful place behind. He wanted to go home to his aunt, to curl up in bed and drink hot chocolate, to build a Lego Death Star with Nate, no, Ned, that's right, while having a Star Wars marathon, followed closely by a Star Trek marathon, both the originals and the spinoffs. He wanted to be free from this horrific nightmare that just wouldn't end.

He couldn't even get a brief rest from the pain. He couldn't pass out, no matter how hard he tried. And believe me, he tried so hard. But it didn't work.

After almost sixteen hours of lying alone in the dark, bored out of his mind and freezing cold (not to mention in more pain than he could ever have dreamed of), Peter heard the door open again. It was quieter, and gentle, and the incoming footsteps were soft instead of rough and heavy, which meant that this was KAT, not Muscle Man. Peter didn't know if that was better.

" _Good afternoon, Peter,"_ he said softly. " _I thought you might like to know, you've been in my care for nineteen days now. Seems shorter, doesn't it? Time does fly when one is enjoying oneself, doesn't it?"_

Nineteen days?! Almost three weeks?! If Peter had been in control of his body at that moment, he would have been pacing up and down the room, running his hands through his hair in frustration. Unfortunately, he couldn't do that at the moment, so he settled for screaming as loud as he could inside his head.

Three weeks was a long time to be missing, but Peter knew that it was infinitely worse than that, because that damn summer camp May had signed him up for was supposed to go for four weeks, which meant she didn't even know he was missing yet. And even if she did, who knows how long it would take to find him? Peter didn't even know where he was, if he was even still in New York, or America, for that matter. This was bad, so bad. Beyond bad.

Even though he just spent sixteen hours alone, trapped inside his head, Peter suddenly wished to be completely alone again. He wanted to curl up and cry, or something like that. Who cares if it wasn't manly, he thought. He was just so tired! Every part of his body ached and stung and burned and itched and throbbed and he just wanted to go to sleep. He just wanted it all to be over.

KAT was speaking again. " _You're in high school, aren't you, Peter?"_ he asked. " _You like math and science, and do a lot of reading also, I assume."_

Yes, he did, but what business was it of KAT's? Peter thought bitterly.

KAT continued like he couldn't hear Peter's response because, oh wait, he actually couldn't.

" _Have you ever read a book called_ Antigone _, Peter? It's a Greek tragedy, I believe. Written by Sophocles, a great man."_

What did Sophocles have to do with anything?

" _Really, his plays are quite fascinating. Good stories, good morals. I think you would like them. But there's one line in particular in_ Antigone _, when Sophocles write, 'Commit cruelty on a person long enough and the mind begins to go.' I think we both know how much truth those words carry."_

Peter wanted to throw up. KAT was right, Sophocles was right. He was beginning to lose his mind, wasn't he? Even if he got out of this, he would never be the same. He would be scarred, physically and mentally. Maybe he'd even go crazy.

" _I know you're in pain, Peter. But don't worry, you won't have to suffer much longer. As Sophocles wrote in another of his plays, 'the dead alone feel no pain.'"_

Peter wanted to cry. This wasn't how his life was supposed to go, he was supposed to be a hero, saving people, and a regular teenager, hanging out with his friends, dating, falling in love, getting married, having kids, living to a ripe old age. He wasn't supposed to die in some cold, dark room at the hands of a maniac, a sociopath. He wasn't supposed to die at age fifteen.

But he was going to. KAT was going to kill him, and probably leave his body to rot in some ditch somewhere, where no one would ever find him. Aunt May would go crazy wondering what happened to him, Ned would be devastated, and Mr. Stark would probably find some way to blame himself, if he remembered about Peter at all.

" _I wonder, Peter, are you afraid?"_ That hated voice came again. " _Can you even hear me? Well, if you can, don't worry, this will be mostly painless."_

Mostly painless? What was he going to do?

Because he was so distracted with thinking of ways KAT could kill him, Peter almost missed hearing KAT call someone.

" _Sloan, get in here!"_

Sloan? Who the hell was Sloan, Peter asked himself. Heavy footsteps approached, ones that sounded all too familiar. Oh. Muscle Man was actually named Sloan. Okay, that's great, Peter thought. Just great. He'd been dying to know Muscle Man's real name. No, wait, he was actually dying.

KAT must have pointed or gestured or something, because Peter didn't hear any words, but the next thing he knew, Sloan was undoing his restraints again and dragging him off the table. Ow! Yep, Peter thought, he was still burned and cut everywhere, and it was only getting worse because of the beefy hand around his neck, dragging him. And the concrete floor beneath him, which was becoming wet with blood from freshly opened cuts.

A splashing sound came from a few feet in front of them, and Peter's mind went numb.

No. No, no no nono nononononononononono! He screamed internally. Please, don't put me back in the water, please, anything but that! No, please!

But he was powerless to stop it. Muscle Man was lifting him, unclenching his hand, letting Peter fall. He was falling, and then the water touched his skin, and was sinking. Water rushed into his lungs, filling them, choking him. He couldn't struggle, he couldn't move.

No, please, he didn't even get to say goodbye to anyone! May, Ned, Mr. Stark, MJ, Liz, anyone! He'd be willing to talk to Flash, even, he just didn't want to die! Please, someone come save him, anyone! Please, please, please please please, please! Don't let him die.

It was getting harder to think, like there was some kind of wall he had to push through to find the words he needed. It was getting darker, too, and colder. But he didn't hurt anymore. Maybe it was okay to die. Sophocles was right, 'dead men alone feel no pain.' Maybe it was better to die; at least he wouldn't be in pain anymore.

The darkness swirled around him like a blanket. It was closing in, wrapping around, suffocating, but it wasn't scary like before. It was…nice.

But now there was something else. A hard hand was grabbing hold of his arm, and pulling him up, away from the blanket of darkness. Why was it doing that? He wanted to go now, the idea of falling asleep seemed so nice now. But he was being pulled up, and he couldn't fight against it. Oh well, if Muscle Man didn't want him to die yet, then Muscle Man wasn't going to let him die yet.

But something was off. The hand wrapped around his arm didn't feel like Muscle Man's beefy hand. It felt harder, colder, more metallic. Weird.

Oh wait, he was falling asleep now. Yay! He was so tired, he just wanted to sleep, and now he could. A different darkness closed in now, a friendly one, welcome more warmly than the cold, suffocating blanket. Before Peter could completely pass out, he heard a voice. What was it saying?

" _I got you, kid,"_ it said. " _I got you. You're safe now."_

Then Peter slipped into sweet, blessed unconsciousness.


	6. Don't Leave Me

**Okay, so I know I said I wouldn't be posting during the week, but it's my little sister's sixteenth birthday today, and she has been begging me to continue this story. So here you go, and Happy Birthday Lila!**

 **P.S. This made my sister cry, even if she won't admit it, so hopefully it'll affect some of you in the same way.**

A voice was calling his name again. It had been doing that for a couple minutes now. Why wouldn't it stop, Peter thought grumpily. He was still tired, and he wanted to hold onto the last vestiges of the darkness that surrounded him. But apparently someone else had a different idea, because a pair of strong hands were pushing down on his chest, trying to get his heart started again.

Started again. Oh. Peter hadn't realized that it had stopped. And come to think of it, Peter couldn't feel his lungs moving to circulate oxygen. That couldn't be good.

No, wait, now air was being forced into his lungs. And then the hands came again, pushing up and down relentlessly as a voice frantically yelled his name. That voice sounded familiar, Peter decided, like a neighbor, or a teacher, or…a mentor-ish person? Mr. Stark?

" _C'mon, Peter, don't give up on me. C'mon buddy, you can do this. Breath, Peter! Or do you want me to kiss you again?"_

Okay, that made no sense. Granted, Peter wasn't exactly thinking clearly at the time, but last time he checked, he wasn't gay, and he certainly wasn't interested in Mr. Stark. That wasn't even a possibility, Peter thought. What did he mea-

Oh gross! Peter suddenly realized what Mr. Stark meant. He was doing CPR, which meant he was breathing for Peter. That's disgusting, Peter thought, just as his mouth was propped open again and more air was forced in. Peter really wanted to struggle away and breathe on his own, but it seemed that his body still wasn't responding to his brain's commands.

He could feel his broken ribs moving under Tony's strong hands, pushing against his lungs. That really hurt, and made him want to wince and smack the hands away. But, he realized grudgingly, Tony was doing this to help him, so he could put up with it for a little while longer, at least until his heart started beating again.

Except it didn't. Tony kept pushing down on his chest, then breathing for him, then pumping again, but it wasn't working. Why wasn't it working, Peter thought in alarm. It should work, it has to work! Peter wanted to wake up so badly, to breath on his own again, to breath the fresh air, to be able to speak and thank Mr. Stark for saving him. But he couldn't.

" _C'mon, Peter, don't do this to me!"_ Mr. Stark sounded so desperate now, and so…broken. So hurt. Peter felt bad that he was the cause of that hurt.

" _I can't do this without you, buddy,"_ he said, and if Peter didn't know any better, he would have sworn that Mr. Stark was crying. But that couldn't be, because Mr. Stark didn't cry, especially not over someone like Peter.

" _I can't keep on living if you die. You're the last piece of goodness and innocence in my life. You're so, so pure, and good, and kind, and if you die-"_ his voice cut off abruptly, at the same moment that his hands moved away from Peter's chest. He was no longer trying to get his heart jump-started.

Peter could feel his limp hand being lifted and held in Mr. Stark's strong ones. He spoke again, but his voice was barely above a whisper.

" _Peter, please don't leave me."_


	7. The Funeral

May cried. Of course she did, Peter would have been shocked and definitely disappointed if she hadn't, because seriously, her own nephew just died.

Yep, Peter thought drily, he was dead. According to all outward appearances, at least. But he wasn't dead, because he could still feel and think and dream and want more than anything else in the world to be awake.

He wanted to live again.

Like George Bailey, in _It's A Wonderful Life_! Peter loved that movie. But their situations weren't exactly the same. George was fed up with his life, and didn't fully appreciate his blessings. Peter, on the other hand, had been kidnapped and tortured for three weeks for reasons he didn't fully understand. George's friends and family had forgotten he existed, while Peter's were still right there, and hurting because they thought he was dead.

Nope, their situations weren't the same at all.

Peter wasn't exactly sure where he was. He assumed it was a hospital, although it was quieter than hospitals usually were. Maybe the Avengers compound in upstate New York? But then again he probably wasn't important enough to be there. Anyway, wherever it was, he was lying in a bed and had wires and stuff hooked up to him, and professional medical people bustling in and out while May sat in a chair next to his bed and held his hand and cried.

It had been almost an hour since Tony had brought him here, and Peter had been surrounded by doctors the whole time. Technically, no one had actually said that he was dead yet, but Peter knew it was coming. People kept scanning him, and monitoring him, and whispering about their results in the hallway, where they thought no one could hear them. But even as he was, Peter's enhanced hearing allowed him to listen to their conversations with ease. He had no heartbeat, he wasn't breathing, and apparently he had no brain activity. Which meant, it wouldn't be long until one of those doctors came and broke the news to May.

What was he going to do?! Peter freaked out. He was obviously still alive, but no one could see it. Were they going to bury him? If it had been beating, Peter's heart would have stopped abruptly at this thought. He was going to be pronounced dead and then buried alive. _Buried alive._ That's something that everyone is afraid of, even if they don't think about it or won't admit it. No one wants to be stuck in a tiny wooden box and then pushed six feet underground, with no air, and no way to get out.

Peter wanted to wake up so badly. He had been trying for so long, ever since he realized his condition. But nothing ever worked, and he didn't know why. He tried so hard. He just wanted to be alive, and for them to see it.

A pair of footsteps was coming down the hallway. It was one that Peter had become very familiar with in the past hour, the head doctor person. He had come and gone several times, always with an air of slight arrogance and authority. But now he was coming again, and his step sounded more subdued, like he had news he didn't want to tell. This was it. This was the moment that Peter had been dreading.

The door opened, and Peter could feel May's hand tense in his.

" _I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Parker, Mr. Stark,"_ the doctor began. Peter had forgotten that Tony was in there, he had been so uncharacteristically quiet.

" _Skip the formalities, just tell us what's wrong with him."_ May ordered. She used the same tone that she used with Peter when she knew he was hiding something, and apparently, he wasn't the only one who was intimidated by it.

The doctor paused for a second before simply saying, " _I'm so sorry. He's gone."_

* * *

The funeral preparations didn't take long, mostly because Tony insisted on paying for everything. Peter wished he wouldn't, because it would just be a waste of money once he woke up. And yes, Peter was fully planning on waking up. He refused to let his friends and family think he was dead, he refused to be buried alive, and most of all, he refused to let KAT win. KAT had taken weeks of Peter's life, left scars on him, mentally, emotionally, and physically, and had affected the people Peter loved in terrible ways. There was no way Peter was going to let him take away his future.

He needed to wake up. He needed to live again.

A couple hours after the doctor pronounced him dead, Peter was brought to a funeral home to prepared for the burial, which someone said would take place the next day. May and Mr. Stark apparently wanted to 'give Peter peace' or something as soon as possible, to give everyone else time to heal. But the next day was way too soon, it didn't give Peter much time to try again everything he could think of to make someone see that he was still alive.

There was some dispute about whether the funeral would be open or closed casket. Mr. Stark wanted closed, because he said people shouldn't remember Peter looking like he was, covered in cuts and bruises which the funeral home couldn't hide. Peter understood that, but he also wanted to scream at Mr. Stark, because closed casket meant no one would see him, and there would be no chance of anyone seeing that he was still alive. May wanted open casket, because she wanted people to see Peter and remember that he was young, and strong, and brave until the end, which Peter would have blushed at if he could.

The overnight refrigeration was awful. Peter forgot that that was how they stored bodies, and he absolutely hated it. It was so cold, and he was so alone, too much like the time he had spent in KAT's lair. He counted every second until morning, when he could finally be taken out again. Each of his wounds ached bitterly throughout the night. Peter didn't even know how that was possible since his heart wasn't pumping blood through his veins, and his nerves shouldn't have been working. Then again, he was alive and trapped inside his own mind while to the outside world, he appeared dead. Not everything that happens in this world is logical, Peter thought.

When they finally took him out of that almost literal hell (the refrigerator freezing place thingy) and had finished embalming his body and dressing him and placing him in the coffin, Peter almost wished they would put him back. They set him up nicely in the coffin, and after a little bit, they let May in to see him before the funeral started. They had decided on no wake, just to make things easier for everyone. But Peter couldn't decide which was worse: spending the night in the freezing cold with all of his cuts and bruises and burns hurting so badly and the memories of his torture being dragged to the front of his mind over and over again without rest, or listening to his aunt, the only relative he had left in the world, trying to be brave while other people were in the room but completely breaking down as soon as she was alone with him.

" _I'm so sorry, Peter,"_ she sobbed, gently running her hand through Peter's hair. " _If I hadn't made you go to that damn summer camp, none of this ever would have happened. This is all my fault, I'm so sorry!"_ She lay her head down on Peter's chest and cried. Peter could feel her tears soaking through his suit, and could feel her hands shaking as they grasped his and pulled them close to her heart. " _Why did I make you go to that camp?!"_ Her voice was somewhat muffled by the fabric of Peter's suit, but he could hear her clearly. " _You deserved so much better than this, sweetie. You should have grown up and found someone to love. You could have done so much good in this world. I-"_ her voice broke, but she cleared her throat and continued bravely. " _I can't live without you, Peter. Since Ben died, you're all I have left. You're like a son to me, and you were to Ben too. You two were my whole world, and now you're both gone. I-I can't-I can't lose you, Peter!"_ She dissolved into a mass of tears and cries that tore through Peter's heart like a burning knife. It hurt so much to hear how much pain his aunt was in, and all because of him. It hurt more than all the torture he had endured.

Soft footsteps came from behind May, and Peter felt her being gently dragged off of him.

" _Don't do this to yourself, May,"_ Mr. Stark said softly.

" _He's my baby, Stark! He's all I had left."_

" _I know. I know."_

Mr. Stark was so gentle with May, he wasn't acting like his usual arrogant self. Instead, he was kind, and supportive, and understanding. It was unlike anything Peter had ever seen before in his mentor.

" _What am I going to do without him?"_

There was a pause.

" _I don't know, May. He's…he_ was _the most amazing, kind-hearted, pure boy-"_ Tony stopped and cleared his throat. " _The most pure_ person _that I've ever met."_

Tony's voice broke, and Peter could hear his muffled sobs that he tried to conceal, before May drew him into an unwilling hug.

" _I'll never forget him,"_ Peter heard the words whispered from his mentor with a tenderness that he'd never heard from him before. But there was something else too, a deep underlying pain that once again made Peter's very soul ache with guilt that he was causing his loved ones so much trouble.

The time before the funeral service started wasn't very long, but every minute of it was agony to Peter. He heard so many people come up to his coffin to say goodbye, not knowing that he could hear every word. Several kids from his school were there, and even some teachers. The Decathlon team seemed pretty upset, and even Michelle couldn't keep her voice steady as she said goodbye. A couple very distant relatives of Peter's and May's were there, but they didn't really care about Peter since they hadn't known him that well.

The absolute worst moment for Peter came right before the service started. It was the moment he had been dreading, when Ned came to say goodbye. He didn't cry, and he barely spoke, but Peter knew he was hurting the most out of everyone by the way he took his friend's hand and just stood there for over five minutes, squeezing and releasing his hand.

After several moments, he finally spoke.

" _I wish you weren't dead,"_ he whispered bluntly. " _But don't worry, I'll never forget you. Actually, I'm gonna get married and have like ten kids and name 'em all Peter. Or maybe not. But seriously, at least one of my kids will be named Peter, and I'll always tell him how he's named after my best friend, who wasn't scared of anything."_ Ned paused and thought for a second.

" _Unless you were scared. Were you afraid to die? Did it hurt to die? I hope not. I wouldn't want you to hurt. But you got off easy. You get to be dead and see your uncle Ben again, and your parents, and everyone. The rest of us have to stay here and be sad that you're gone. And I am. Sad, I mean. I really wish you were still here, or at least that I could come with you. You're not supposed to go anywhere without your Guy in the Chair, remember? I made you promise. But I guess you didn't get a choice."_

A pair of soft footsteps came up behind Ned. Peter recognized them as Tony's before he heard Tony gently tell Ned that it was time to go, the service would be starting soon.

" _Goodbye Peter,"_ Ned said, and now there was a slight catch in his voice. " _You were the best friend I'll ever have."_

Tony cleared his throat.

" _Come on,"_ he said. " _There's someone I want you to meet."_

They walked away a few feet, but not out of Peter's hearing range.

" _This is Ned, Peter's best friend."_ Peter heard Tony introduce him to someone. " _Ned, this is T'Challa, the king of Wakanda, and this is Princess Shuri, his sister."_

" _Oh, wow, it's great to meet you!"_ Ned said enthusiastically. " _I've read about you on the news! I mean, I've heard about you on the news, and I read about you in the papers. This is awesome! Are you here for Peter's funeral?"_

" _No, not directly,"_ T'Challa answered in his deeply accented voice. " _We are here to discuss the establishment of Wakandan outreach centers in the United States, but it seemed fitting to pay our respects also to the boy that has protected this city for the past year."_

" _Yeah, it's-I mean, what? Protected this city? Peter? How? What are yo-"_

" _Ned,"_ Tony interrupted gently. " _They know he's Spiderman."_

" _Oh."_

" _Yes, and from the footage I have seen of him fighting, he seemed like a strong proponent of good in this city,"_ Shuri added. " _I would have liked to meet him."_

" _He was the best,"_ Tony said softly, his voice a bit hoarse. " _Would you like to…pay your final respects to him before the casket is closed?"_

There was a pause, during which Peter assumed Shuri and T'Challa must have exchanged a look because a few seconds later, they politely accepted.

This feels so weird, Peter thought, the freaking king of Wakanda is at my funeral!

T'Challa and Shuri began chanting softly in a different language, which Peter correctly assumed was Wakandan. They did this for less than a minute, then ceased, crossed their arms, and turned to leave. Two other people came forward to straighten Peter's clothes and hair one last time, before lowering the casket's lid with a solid _boom_. It was official; Peter was dead to the world and about to be buried alive.

* * *

 **So, that's a little intense.**

 **Yay, I managed to write in T'Challa and Shuri! I loved both of them in Black Panther, and was waiting for the perfect moment to include them.**

 **As always, please review and tell me what you think! I could be so cruel and end it here, but don't worry, more is coming.**


	8. Guilt

Tony Stark ran his trembling hand through his already disheveled hair. Peter's death had affected him more than he would ever care to admit, though he wasn't exactly sure why. Sure, the kid had been pretty funny, and smart, and he had meant what he said earlier to May, that Peter was the purest person he'd ever met, but why did that make him so different? It was like, ever since Tony first met Peter, he couldn't help but be interested in what he was doing. He wanted him to be safe, hence all the security precautions in the spider suit, but more than that, he wanted to be part of the kid's life, to help him in all the little things, to see him grow and develop, and to just become the best version of himself that he could.

But now none of that would ever happen, because some sick, twisted bastard had tortured and murdered Peter "in the name of science." He hit him, burned him, cut him open, tore his skin apart, starved him, drowned him, and who knows what else. He caused Peter so much pain, and then deprived him of the future he should have had, all for no reason whatsoever. It almost made Tony physically sick to think about.

He shook his head to clear out all those thoughts, trying to focus on the man at the front of the room who was saying something about Peter and what a good person he'd been. And he didn't even know the half of it, Tony thought.

Beside him, May sat with one arm around Ned, as if to comfort him. Each one looked like they were literally two seconds from completely dissolving into a mess of tears, and only holding it together for the sake of the other. May's other hand was in her lap, and as he glanced down, Tony noticed that she was holding something. It looked like a small cardboard locket, like something a kindergartener would make, and inside it was nestled a picture of a beaming May with her arms wrapped around a tiny Peter in Captain America T-shirt, and around both of them were the arms of an equally happy man, May's husband Ben, Tony presumed. All three of them looked so happy, so innocent, carefree, completely unaware of the horrible fates they would suffer. After all, who could have guessed that barely ten years from that day, both Ben and Peter would have died gruesome deaths at the hands of cold-blooded murderers? Who would have thought that the caring, motherly woman in that photograph would lose not only her husband, but the nephew she had come to think of and to love as her son?

Life was indeed cruel and unusual. Nothing was fair. Bad people often got away with the most horrible crimes, and lived the rest of their lives without repercussions, while good, innocent people who deserved every good thing in the world had the worst fortune, and suffered the most out of anyone. It made Tony so mad, he just wanted to punch something.

Someone was still talking pointlessly about Peter's great accomplishments at such a young age, blah blah blah, which he knew literally nothing about.

Tony let his mind drift to his young friend. He drowned out the speaker's voice with the memory of Peter's cheerful, bubbling laugh, and instead of the people and casket before him, he saw Peter's brilliant smile, and his smooth brown eyes. He saw the light that sparked in them whenever the boy had an idea or figured out a problem he had been working on. All those happy memories flashed before his eyes, but then, before he could stop it, the terrible ones came flooding his mind.

He remembered May frantically calling him in the middle of the night, saying that the summer camp she had enrolled Peter in had called and said he never arrived. He remembered searching for any trace of Peter for almost three weeks before finally getting a lead. He saw clearly in his mind the moment he pulled Peter's cold, limp body out of a tank of water, where he was drowning, dying. He could still feel the boy's frozen chest and lips as he tried to resuscitate Peter, pumping his heart frantically and breathing into his lungs.

He remembered the moment when he realized that there was no point to what he was doing, and the horror that weighed heavily in his chest when he finally realized that Peter was dead. That he was gone.

Tony finally couldn't stand it anymore. With whispered apologies to May, he quietly crept out of the room. The sun outside was near blinding, and the cars on the street sounded like freight trains roaring past. Everything was too loud, too bright, moving too fast. Tony felt like he couldn't breathe. All he could think about was Peter, and the fact that he would never, _ever_ see him again, because Tony couldn't save him in time. It was all his fault, because he wasn't fast enough, because he let Peter go off to a summer camp with no supervision. That bastard never should have even had a chance to get close to Peter.

It was all his fault. His fault that Peter had endured so much pain, his fault that Peter had drowned before Tony could save him, _his fault_ that he would never get to live his life.

Tony's breathing became heavy and erratic. He couldn't control how fast his lungs moved, and though he was taking in a lot of air, it felt like he was being slowly suffocated. His lungs burned in his chest, and the world around him darkened.

A gentle hand appeared on his shoulder, and through the fog in his brain he could hear a deeply accented voice telling him, "Slow your breathing. Feel my chest, and follow the movements. In, and out. In and out." Tony obeyed the voice, and soon found that it was becoming easier to breathe. His vision cleared.

King T'Challa was standing beside him in the funeral home parking lot, helping him control his breathing. As soon as it was under control, he guided Tony to a bench, where they sat in silence for several minutes.

"Thank you," Tony said after a while.

"You are not the first person I have met who was affected badly by the death of someone they loved," T'Challa explained. "I myself had difficulty at first accepting my father's passing."

"Yeah, me too. But it's different this time, it's worse. I just….I don't know." Tony sighed heavily and stopped. T'Challa didn't say anything, knowing he would continue at his own pace.

"It's just, Peter was a kid. He was in high school. He's probably about the same age as your sister, but he's never going to get the chance to live. He's gone, and I can't change it, and it's all my fault, I should have searched harder, maybe I could have found him sooner, but now he's gone, an-"

T'Challa held up a firm hand to keep Tony from spiraling further into his pit of self-blame.

"Mr. Stark, I have not known you for very long, but I know that you cared deeply for the boy Peter Parker. So let me tell you something: there is no way you could have done anything to prevent what happened to him. It is true Peter Parker was a victim to unthinkable acts of cruelty which defiled his nature and his human dignity, but you were not the cause of his suffering. You also were a victim, for your love for him was taken by the murderer and used against you to cause unspeakable pain. No one is at fault for the events which occurred except for the man who kidnapped Peter and voluntarily inflicted pain on him. You must not blame yourself for something over which you had no control."

Tony sighed and ran a hand over his eyes. The stress of the day and of the past few weeks had finally caught up to him, and evolved into a full-blown migraine.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he admitted grudgingly. "But the son of a bitch who tortured and murdered my boy better watch out, 'cause I'm coming for him and no one will be able to save him by the time I'm done with him."

T'Challa didn't say anything to contradict Tony's declaration, but looked at him with deep, probing eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul.

"Tell me about Peter," he said. "What kind of boy was he?"

"The best," Tony stated simply. "Kind, smart, funny. Loved to laugh, loved to live."

"And as Spiderman, how did he deal with the criminals he faced?"

"Better than anyone I've ever seen. He used the least amount of force necessary to take them down, but always put the victims first."

"Did he ever kill anyone?"

Tony paused before answering, now seeing where the line of questioning was headed.

"No," he said at last. "No, he was too gentle for that. He never would have recovered from killing someone."

"Then do as he would do in this instance," T'Challa advised. "Do not let your hatred for Peter's murderer to consume you. Rather, allow Peter's innocence and kindness and your love for him influence the decision you make in this instance."

Tony hung his head slightly, now feeling slightly guilty on Peter's behalf that he had been so tempted and so ready to murder the man in cold blood, just as he had murdered Peter.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, Peter."

A stray tear escaped his eye and slid unnoticed down his cheek as he rested his forehead on his folded hands, mirroring the position he had found himself in the moment he realized that Peter was dead, only this time he was not desperately clinging to the cold limp hand of the most pure person in the world. Now he was virtually alone, left to live out his life without the bright ray of sunshine he had known as Peter Parker.

T'Challa placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and the two sat again in silence.

Without warning, the door to the funeral home burst open and Shuri came towards them at an unimaginable speed, Ned following closely on her heels.

"Mr. Stark!" She cried, out of breath but filled to the brim with enthusiasm. "Mr. Stark, I need your help."

"Shuri!" T'Challa reprimanded. "Remember, you must have respect for this place of mourning. Do not raise your voice, please."

"I apologize, brother," Shuri exclaimed in excitement, "but you must listen to me."

She took a deep breath.

"I think I know a way to save Peter Parker."

 **Yay, chapter eight! It's been way too long since I posted, but I wasn't sure how to write this chapter. I think I figured it out, but let me know what you think!**


	9. In Theory

**I had so much fun writing this chapter, especially the bits with Ned and Shuri. I love them both so much! This is a little rushed because I just wanted to get another chapter up, but hopefully it's not too bad. I'm already part-way through the next chapter because I can't get this story out of my head and I really enjoy writing it, so stay tuned for more within the next week (fingers crossed!) Anyway, enough of my babbling. Enjoy!**

At the moment, Peter was more freaked out than he had ever been. He could faintly hear someone speaking, talking about him and how amazing he had been, blah blah blah. But that wasn't the scary part. What was so frightening was the fact that the speaker seemed to winding down. His speech was coming to end, and when he was done, the only thing left to do would be to bury Peter.

He wondered what would happen if he did get buried. Would he eventually suffocate or starve to death? Although, his body didn't seem to be working at the moment, so maybe those things wouldn't affect him. Also, he had spent more than a week in this state, which meant no food for at least that long. Come to think of it, he hadn't actually eaten anything since the morning of the day he was kidnapped. And yet he hadn't starved. Huh, that was weird.

But back to the main issue; how to keep from being buried alive.

Peter had been thinking through his situation for a long time, far _too_ long, and he still had absolutely no idea how to get anyone to realize his situation.

A faint humming sound had been developing in the back of his mind, but now it was growing louder and more intense, like the beginning of a massive headache. It was quite loud now, and coming closer.

Closer?

The door to the funeral home was pushed open with a bang, startling everyone inside and arousing gasps of both fright and indignation. Peter's heart jumped to his mouth, and he swore that if his body was working, his heart would be at that moment pounding at a million miles an hour.

But now he realized, it hadn't been a headache. It was voices he had heard, the excited voices of Tony, Ned, and Princess Shuri. They were talking too fast for even him to make sense of, and they were standing right next to his coffin.

" _...If you_ could _theoretically isolate the cells…?"_ Peter managed to pick out Tony's voice from the others. He sounded excited, hopeful, but with an underlying tone of fear, like he didn't want to dare to be hopeful.

" _In theory, it should work!"_ Shuri exclaimed.

" _Mr. Stark, would you mind explaining what the hell is going on here?"_ An angry voice yelled above all the commotion. One of the funeral home guys, Peter assumed.

In true Stark fashion, Tony completely ignored him and all the other voices demanding an explanation, until May got involved.

" _Tony,"_ she said softly. The one word caught his attention, and suddenly the entire room fell silent. Peter could hear Tony's light footsteps on the heavily carpeted floor as he walked over to her and took her hands.

" _May, I made you a promise that I didn't keep,"_ he began softly. " _I promised that I would get Peter back alive and well. I didn't do that, but now there might, just_ maybe _, be a way to save him. Please, you have to let me try."_

No one spoke for what seemed to Peter like years. When May finally spoke again, there was a slight hitch in her voice, like she was trying to hold back tears. In that moment, Peter swore that if he lived past this, he would never do anything to make May cry again; she deserved happiness more than anyone, especially because of the grief he had caused her.

" _You can save him?"_ She barely spoke above a whisper, but the weight that her four simple words carried echoed throughout the room.

" _I…I don't know, not for sure."_ Tony admitted heavily. " _But I promise that I will try my very best, and I_ will _make good on this promise."_

" _Don't worry, Mrs. Parker,"_ Shuri chimed in. " _He will not work alone. If there is any chance that we can save your nephew, we will."_

Peter couldn't see it, but he knew that May had moved to embrace both Shuri and Tony, whispering thank-yous in their ears.

" _Yes, yes, please save him,"_ she whispered.

Shuri sighed deeply and straightened up. She had been leaning over a desk in Tony's lab for the past six hours, working on a cure for Peter. His coffin had been tenderly placed on one side of the room, and opened so she could extract skin and blood samples. Seeing all the cuts, bruises, and burns on his face, neck, and hands had been bad enough, but when she had had to unbutton his shirt to get a sample of his heart tissue, the sheer number of wounds on his abdomen had been impressive and completely disgusting.

Tony had literally run out of the room to throw up at the sight, despite having already seen his condition, though Shuri couldn't blame him for his reaction. She herself had felt a little nauseated just looking at him.

She glanced over to the coffin now, to see Ned in the same place he had been for the past six hours, sitting silently with his best friend and merely holding his hand. It really was one of the sweetest things she'd ever seen, Ned just sitting in support of his friend, even though he was dead. But hopefully very soon, both best friends would be alive and well.

From across the room, Shuri and Ned's eyes met, and they each gave the other a tired but encouraging half-smile. Each knew that the other was doing their best.

"Did you figure it out yet?" Ned asked, not impatiently but with a kind understanding.

Shuri shook her head. "Not quite," she said, folding her arms and moving closer. "I'm close, though, I can feel it."

"That's cool. Do you think, maybe, if you want to, can you explain it to me? Like, what you're trying to do? I still don't really get it, I'm not good with biology."

"Of course." Shuri answered, pulling up a chair beside him. "Um, so, you know that Peter's Spiderman?"

"Yeah, of course. I'm his Guy in the Chair."

"I don't know what that is, but it sounds awesome. Anyway, because he's Spiderman, Peter's DNA has fused with unknown strands of spider DNA, giving him spider-like abilities."

"Yeah, that's why he's like, super flexible and jumpy and sticks to things."

"Exactly. Now, the spider which bit him was genetically modified to be different from the others, how, I'm not exactly sure, but it has also made Peter different. I tested his DNA and matched it with a type of spider I once studied in Wakanda, the _Pardosa lugubris_ , as it is called here. Peter contains several of the same genes as the _Pardosa lugubris_."

"That's awesome," Ned exclaimed, his eyes wide. "So how did that help?"

"I am getting to that," Shuri lightly hit his arm. "I do not know how much you know about what that… _man_ did to your friend-"

"I know it all," Ned whispered. "I…overheard the doctors talking. They said Peter had been burned, punched, stabbed, cut, suffocated, drowned, and hit with a metal bat, and maybe even more that they couldn't see."

Shuri put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "This cannot be easy."

Ned shrugged. "It's not," he said simply. He turned away and rubbed some moisture from his eyes. "So, you were saying…?"

"Yes, of course," Shuri continued. "You mentioned that he was…drowned. This type of spider, the _Pardosa lugubris_ , was subjected to experiments where scientists drowned it and studied the results. But to their surprise, the spider came back to life."

"What?!"

"It appeared to have a defense mechanism which developed from living near water. When underwater for a long period of time, it switches to a metabolic process where it does not need air to survive."

"And you said Peter has that spider's DNA in his?"

"Exactly. I am hoping that I can use both his cells and the cells of the actual spider to transfer his metabolic activity back to normal, and he will regain consciousness."

"Could….could that, you know, work?"

"I think so, which is why I am trying it."

Ned didn't say anything. Of course he had heard Shuri and Mr. Stark talking before about bringing Peter back, but all their talk went over his head. This, this was real, and Shuri was working on it right now. She was working on a way _to bring Peter back._

"Holy shit," he whispered. "I'm getting my best friend back."

 **Aaah! Peter's alive! Not that you didn't already know that, but know they do too! I promise more will be coming soon.**

 **Sorry if the characters didn't really sound like themselves, Shuri especially. I started writing her and then realized I was writing like Letitia Wright talks, not how Shuri talks. I tried to fix it, but I'm not perfect, so...**

 **Changing topics, Infinity War comes out this week! I'm so excited and terrified at the same time. I can't wait!**

 **Anyway, have a good day/night and God bless!**


	10. The Cure

**Two chapters in two days; I'm on a roll! I literally just spent hours writing this, I could not get it out of my head. Should I have been writing my history paper instead? Probably. Do I care? No.**

 **I'm not a doctor or anything, and I don't have a beta reader, so if there are any blaring inconsistencies in my science mumbo-jumbo, please let me know and I'll try to fix it.**

"Are you alright?" The King of Wakanda's heavy accent brought Tony Stark back to the present. He sighed and half-heartedly attempted to smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, ignoring the fact that he had just been vomiting into the toilet for a full seven minutes, and was now leaning weakly against the bathroom wall. T'Challa stared at him with disbelieving eyes.

Tony looked at the floor. "Yeah, you're right," he sighed, responding verbally to T'Challa's wordless gaze. "I'm not fine. I haven't been fine for…well, I guess since Peter was kidnapped. I just, I can't get over everything he had to endure. I mean, even if Shuri _does_ save him, it doesn't change the fact that he was kidnapped and _tortured_ for _weeks_ , and I didn't do a damn thing about it."

"Do you remember what I said before, about not blaming yourself for something you could not control?" T'Challa gently reminded Tony of their earlier conversation.

"Yeah, kind of hard to forget when the King of Wakanda gives you advice," Tony joked bitterly. "Great advice, Your Majesty, but I'm not the type of person that just forgets to care about the kid I should have been taking care of and watching out for. It just doesn't come naturally."

"I understand that you hate the suffering that your friend has gone through, but if your description of Peter is anything like the boy himself, he will not blame you for what happened. He will see that there was no way you could have prevented the events that occured, and love you just the same as before."

"I wish he would," Tony sighed, "but that's not how the world works, no offense, Your Majesty. Someone has to take the blame for everything."

"I agree, but in this case, the blame will never lie with you or with anyone else who tried to stop Peter's torture and save his life."

"Yeah, I guess not," Tony didn't sound at all convinced. "But-"

"Mr. Stark, King T'Challa!" Ned threw the bathroom door open in unbounded excitement. "Shuri did it! She found the cure!"

Tony and T'Challa looked each other for a split second before both taking off down the hallway behind Ned, racing to the lab.

"We will continue this discussion later," T'Challa called to Tony as they ran.

Peter had never felt happier in his life. She had done it! Shuri had actually found a cure that would work to give his mind back control of his body. He wasn't dead! He was going to live again! He desperately wanted to jump and shout and swing between buildings for joy, but that would have to wait, though only a few minutes because _he was going to live again!_

A soft hand tenderly lifted his rough, wounded one, being careful not to agitate the cuts and burns which covered it.

" _I look forward to meeting you in consciousness, Peter Parker,"_ Shuri said softly. " _All your friends hold you in very high esteem. I should like to see for myself if you are worth all the trouble of finding this cure. Hopefully, I will not be disappointed."_

Peter gulped (figuratively). The freaking princess of Wakanda expected him to be some perfect superhuman or something, which he most definitely was not. Oh well. He could always do a flip to try to impress her or something.

Several sets of running footsteps were approaching from the hallway, and within seconds, three people burst into the lab, two of them breathing rather heavily from the exertion. King T'Challa barely sounded winded.

" _You have found the solution, sister?"_ He asked respectfully but eagerly.

Who knew the King of Wakanda would ever be eager for someone like Peter to wake up, Peter thought. Then again, maybe he was just eager to get this over with so he could leave. Yeah, that had to be it, he decided.

" _Well?"_ Tony asked impatiently. " _Can you cure him?"_

" _I have tested this formula on several of his cell samples,"_ Shuri explained, " _And the results have been very promising. If you would like, I can now inject it into to Peter."_

" _Do it!"_ Tony and Ned's eager voices cried out, but T'Challa stopped them saying, " _What about the boy's aunt? Should she not be here for this?"_

" _I'm here,"_ Aunt May spoke softly from the doorway where she had just arrived, her breath also coming in slight pants. " _Please, if you think that formula can save Peter, by all means, use it."_

Shuri took a deep breath. " _All right,"_ she said, " _here goes."_

Peter felt his shirt being opened again, his chest exposed to the cool air of the lab. He had been removed from the coffin and placed on a medical bed used for operations, and was currently hooked up to several small monitors which were depressingly silent, since he had no vital signs at the moment.

Shuri swabbed an area of skin right above his heart with an alcohol wipe to clear away bacteria. Though his body was already cold, the wipe felt colder, like a piece of ice on his chest. Then came the needle.

It pinched his skin slightly, but went deeper, into his heart, and a liquid was released. He could feel every drop of the liquid, which was neither warm nor cold, dispersing slowly throughout his unmoving heart. All in all, the needle wasn't so bad. The shock was what came after the needle.

It was a literal shock. Shuri charged the AEDs and pressed the pads to his chest, sending a wave of electrical current coursing through his body. Nothing happened. She repeated the procedure three more times before finally, to the relief of every single person in the room, and to Peter most of all, there came the smallest _beep_ from his heart monitor.

It was just one beep, but enough to raise the hope of everyone in the room. Once again, Shuri charged the defibrillators and sent a current through Peter's body. Then it came again, a quiet _beep_ , followed several seconds later by another beep, then another, and another until they were coming at a fairly constant rate.

They all let out deep breaths they didn't realize they had been holding, moving to embrace each other and cheer in excitement. Peter was alive!

Peter himself could hardly believe it; his heart was beating, his lungs were moving air in and out of his body. He could taste the air, smell every smell within a hundred yards, feel every bit of pain from every wound on his body. And that's when things started to go wrong.

For the past several days, more than a week, Peter had been detached from his body, feeling what he could feel but as much or as painfully as he should have. Now it felt like every nerve was competing for Peter's attention, begging to be noticed by sending as much pain as it possibly could to his brain, overloading both his brain and his heart.

He gasped as his lungs constricted, the broken ribs he had forgotten about scraping and squeezing against his lungs, and the burned flesh on his throat shrivelling and acting as a noose, cutting off his air supply. His back arched involuntarily as he wheezed for air, the heart monitor to his left going crazy as his heart-rate shot way up.

He could vaguely hear panicked voices around him trying to figure out what was wrong, but they were coming through an even thicker haze than before. He could only make out bits and pieces of sentences, like " _He's not getting enough air,"_ and " _Hold him still!"_ His limbs were shaking uncontrollably, waving all over the place as he tossed and turned on the table. Several hands and arms reached out to hold him still, two of the hands impossibly strong. He wondered for a brief moment who else in the room was enhanced, but quickly turned his attention back to trying not to die. Again.

At least two people were holding his head against the table, reaggravating wounds but keeping his head still while Shuri delicately cut away the burned flesh from his neck, opening his lungs again. For a few seconds, he lay still, his muscles relaxed, exhausted from the exertion.

But lack of air wasn't the only thing that was causing him pain. He could now feel the full extent of every cut, scrape, punch, fracture, burn, stab wound. It all hit him, causing him to let out the most unmanly of whimpers that at any other time he would have been eternally ashamed of, but right it just hurt too much for him to even care. From the whimper, his cries turned into a kind of pathetic sobbing that only comes from someone in unimaginable pain. Tears streamed down his face, and the sobbing evolved into a louder, soul-piercing scream which broke the hearts of all who heard it. His back arched yet again, and again the hands came to hold him down and stop him from hurting himself.

" _What's happening?!"_ He heard Tony yell above his pained shouting.

" _I don't know!"_ Shuri responded in distress. " _Perhaps his brain is reconnecting to his nerves and letting all the pain he should have felt in at once?"_

" _Is that a theory or a fact?"_

" _I'm not sure."_

" _Okay, so theory,"_ Tony cried. " _What do we do, how do we help him?"_

" _I…I don't think we can,"_ Shuri responded regretfully. " _We may have to just wait until his mind can adapt to the high levels of pain and his body can begin its accelerated healing process."_

" _How long will that take?"_

Relative silence followed Tony's last question, disturbed only by Peter's agonized cries. So, they didn't know how long this would last, he thought dismally, somewhere above all the pain. Great, just great.

It had been almost three hours of Peter's non-stop yelling and crying. He wished he could stop, more than anything, but everything just hurt too much. He like if he tried to keep it in, he might explode.

His voice was getting hoarse now from all the yelling, and the pain in the rest of his body was now more manageable. He quieted down, reduced to only panting heavily to express his agony.

He could hear again, and unlike the past week and a half, the voices came clearly to his ears.

"Is he okay now?" May asked frantically. She hadn't left Peter's side for a single moment over the past three hours, just sitting calmly and occasionally brushing his hair away from his sweat-drenched forehead. Shuri hesitated a few seconds, but responded confidently.

"He will need much time to recover," she said, "But as far as I can tell, his enhanced healing will begin to affect his wounds very soon. He will need to be patient. He has been through a lot, and he needs to allow himself the proper amount of time to heal."

Time to heal?! Peter thought. Bullshit. He had been unconscious for days, and yes, every part of him ached and hurt like hell, but he needed to see someone, anyone. He needed to touch someone's face, to move his hands of his own accord. He needed to be alive again.

"Will he…Is he going to be different from what he was like before?" Ned asked hesitantly. Everyone looked at each other thoughtfully, and a bit anxiously.

"I hope not," Shuri said at last. "But I cannot say for sure. Just, be kind and patient with him and see what happens."

"Just don't baby me," a weak voice chimed in. "I hate being babied."

"Peter?!" May gasped. Tony's head shot straight up from his former slouching position on the couch, and he was at Peter's side before you could say 'Spiderman'.

Slowly, carefully, Peter cracked his dark brown eyes open. At first, everything blurred into one colorless blob, but as his eyes adjusted, he could make out different objects, and more importantly, different people.

Ned was on his right, squeezing his right hand like it was the only thing left in the world as he unashamedly let his tears flow. Aunt May was on his left, one arm draped over his chest and her other hand running through his dishevelled hair. Behind her was Tony Stark himself, with one hand on May's shoulder and the other gently holding Peter's left hand like it was more delicate than a soap bubble.

And the most surprising thing of all, Tony Stark was crying.

 **I just want to give a quick (or not so quick) thank-you to everyone who has followed, favorited, or posted a review for this story, it really means a lot to me to have people enjoy my writing.**

 **So thank you to everyone who has followed this story, 3moji61, 21sy4, Andrei Rian, AquaJinx, Beasttamer99, Blik46, Blondie 24-7, Cassadoodle88, Criminalmindsaddict16, DaughterofIris9, Dimensional Phaser, Fiesty23, IPhoenix03, IntrovertedMess, James Prongs Potter, Makayla24, PacTep, Parispiekitchen, Paula M, Poohbearmorris, Rainy Spirit, Rogueantihero, ScruffydaDruid, TreeQueen, allivengers4406, bsoccer18, horses5012, jazmn22, lunamoonssister, nanga, padfootl0ve, pducks21, regalxdreams, sleepyPrincess, startrekfanforever, and themarveluniverse29.**

 **Thank you to all who have favorited this story, themarveluniverse29, supergrandefan, startrekfanforever, sleepyPrincess, , nanga, jazmn22, bsoccer18, angelhitomi, allivengers4406, YouBetterCryKed, TreeQueen, StarSnek, ScruffydaDruid, Rogueantihero, Poohbearmorris, Parispiekitchen, PacTep, Makayla24, IntrovertedMess, IPhoenix03, DarkSolaris57, Ciaram88, AwesomeAllison1, Andrei Rian, Amanda Lili, and 21sy4.**

 **And finally, thank you to everyone who reviewed, jazmn22, Rogueantihero, PacTep, Dnlk337 (Guest), AquaJinx, Guest, padfootl0ve, Cloudoffeathers (Guest), and Spider-Bat (Guest).**


End file.
